University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.

To the reader who is keeping in view the key to our
story—that it portrays only the vanishing and usually
overlooked shades of the coloring of a destiny (the “parts
of a life yet untold”)—it will not seem strange that we
dwell thus principally on what was but a hidden and
unconfessed thought of Paul's mind during this birth-day
breakfast. With most of the company the day was one
(intellectually) of slippers and shirt-sleeves, loosened girdles,
and unbound hair. Such, at least, would have been
the apparelling of their thoughts made visible. The rural
festivity so uncostly and so simple, was a mental (as well
as bodily) taking of breath in fresh open air, after confinement
to things artificial—a change from the imprisonment
of palace luxury and ceremony to the cottage freedom of
plain surroundings and gaiety at will. And the guests
were not only such as could best realize this charm of
contrast, but they were those who could be at ease with

each other, under full abandonment to its simplicities for
the day. Colonel Paleford, with a dignity above all splendor,
and his daughter with a beauty above all rank, were
the best of bidders to such a feast. But, while Paul felt all
this with the others, and was busy laying away in his
memory its many artistic contrasts and combinations, the
haunting spectre-thought in the background of his mind
was still visible. Trifling as it might have been, to all
present, and improbable as the existence of such a thought
would have seemed to her who believed herself (for him,
at least), the sole magnet of the hour, it still had its perpetual
place, and acted, with more or less influence, upon
his every look and movement.

A proposition to change the scene, by a transfer of the
coffee-tray to the cool spring in the grove below the hill,
was the break-up of the party at the table; and, through
the long alleys of the vineyard, and away under the old
chestnuts and cedars of the small wood that had been left
to shelter the spring, were seen scattered the careless promenaders.
The movement, of course, involved some new
arrangements, for which the fair Sybil must call upon her
aids; and Paul saw immediately, that, in the joint attendance
which would thus fall upon him and Mr. Ashly,
there would be a familiar contact with that gentleman,
which would throw light enough for his own quick eyes
upon his secret point of curiosity.

In another moment entered the little barefooted regazza
and her peasant mother (of the resident family of the
vineyard, the outside attendants upon the festivity), bringing
between them the costly tray with its silver furniture,
which was almost the only relic preserved from the reduced
fortune of the Palefords. To remove this heavy article
with its fragrant load, and set it on the old stone curb of
the well below, was evidently to be the work of two courteous
assistants—the lady herself, and her father with his
one arm, already laden with cake-baskets and cups.

“Mr. Fane! Mr. Ashly!” was the appealing call upon
them, by the sweet voice of the smiling Sybil.

Paul stepped promptly forward, and, with a slight inclination
of the head, to express his consent to the proposed
partnership, laid his hand upon the tray.

But there was a hesitation—a single instant of embarrassment—a
look of inquiry to Colonel Paleford, as if the
partnership should rather have been with him—before the
movement was acceded to by Mr. Ashly. With a single
glance at Paul (but no word of courtesy or other sign of
willing fellowship with him in the lady's service) he then
hurriedly recovered as if from a delay that had grown
awkward, lifted his part of the burthen and walked on.

Now, while there was nothing in this at which Paul
could reasonably take offence—no proffer of his own
rejected, no advance of his own repelled—there was still

enough in that look of an instant, and the trifling action
that accompanied it, to decide, incontrovertibly, for him,
the visionary uncertainty at his heart. The phantom
question was answered. Circumstances had combined to
present him fairly and fully to the fatal eye in which lay
the power of pronouncing what was his grade in nature;
and by the unprompted instinct of that eye, he had been
looked down upon as inferior. The disparagement of his
quality by the same tribunal once before—the sister's cold
eye, in which resided the same power—was thus confirmed.
Even as they walked, now, side by side—through the
vibrations of the senseless burthen borne between his and
Mr. Ashly's united grasp—there passed, it seemed to him,
a magnetism of rejection and depreciation. He was
denied to be of the world's finer clay. The moss-covered
stones of the old well were not reached, before the gates
of his heart closed upon the admitted secret, so long held
at arms'-length, and like a barbed arrow, it was shut in to
rankle in his pride.

But with the setting down of the massive silver tray,
there was a new liveliness given, all at once, to the ministrations
of the lovely Egeria. An ingenious table was suddenly
constructed by a lattice-gate taken from its hinges
and laid across the well-curb; the turned-up bucket was
placed for a seat; the coffee-cups and their various accompaniments
were skillfully arranged; and every want of the

extemporized entertainment seemed to be magically anticipated.
As the guests came in, couple after couple, from
their stroll through the vineyard and grove, they were
waited on and served from the fragrant fount, with the
graceful gaiety of a play; the groups were arranged picturesquely
on the green-sward in the shade, and the pervading
tone of buoyancy and merry unceremoniousness
made the scene less like a party from modern Florence than
like a romance from Boccacio.

And it would have been difficult for Mr. Ashly not to
see that the conjuror of this fresh spell of gaiety was Mr.
Fane. In the change of this gentleman's manner to sudden
joyousness, there had been a complete magnetism for
the spirits of the company. In the confident aptness of
his attendance upon Miss Paleford, his ready tact of
courtesy, his respectful but eager promptness, his abandonment
altogether to the mirth and impulse of the moment,
it was evident that he was exercising a natural gift of
becoming the ruling spirit of the hour. Whatever might
be Mr. Ashly's opinion as to its assumption or forwardness,
it was undeniably successful in superseding and throwing
into the shade his own dignity and reserve; and he could
not but see, also, that it sat exceedingly well upon Mr.
Fane.

But, for Sybil, there was a magnetism, in this change of
Paul's manner, which reached farther. Exhilarated as she

might easily have been with such magic anticipation of
her wants, such skillful service, and such aid of herself as a
centre to shine and diffuse brightness to her circle of
guests, there was a contrast in it all, which was alone
visible to her, and which stirred a thoughtfulness deeper
than any exhilaration was likely to have thrown its light
She had but vaguely realized, before, what was wanting in
Paul's manner to her. With all the charm she had
secretly thought to possess over him, there was a reserved
depth in his heart, which his manner, hitherto, in some
inexplicable way, assured her she did not reach. Without
fairly reasoning upon it—dismissing it, indeed, with some
easily found excuse as often as it presented itself—she had
been, still, perseveringly haunted by this uncertainty of her
power over him.

It was changed now! There was an entireness of purpose
in every look, word, and action—a welcome to that
and more—which was new in Paul's manner. Its expression
seemed to her to be that of a lover, and a complete
and daring one—one who wished all her attention for the
moment, and was confident of deserving and winning it—
yet with a lover's deference in the accent of the words
addressed only to his own ear, and a lover's deep-toned
earnestness and an inexpressibly softened tenderness, in the
attentions which were for herself only. It was the making
her seem the whole world to him, as she had longed to

seem; and the response—in her gentle yieldingness of
movement and tone, and in the more languid softness
which now veiled the usual clearness of her eye—would
have startled any observer less pre-occupied than he who
had caused it.

But, in thus playing the lover for the first time to this
beautiful girl, Paul was madly unaware both of the character
of his motive, and of the extent to which he was
successful. His apparent coolness and self-possession might
have made him seem more than usually conscious of what
responsibility he was incurring; yet these were but the
outer workings of an inner tumult that, in its present first
waking, was wholly ungovernable. The power of concentration
that was his leading quality of mind—enabling him
now, as it did, to bend every faculty with almost unnatural
aptitude and quickness to the accomplishment of his object
—was, for the present, but a withdrawal of all light from
conscience and motive. The slight which his visionary
sensibility had received from Mr. Ashly forced the long-gathered
darkness of the cloud in his mind to a lightning
point. He had been pronounced of coarser clay—and by
any possible assertion of a superiority of his own he must
lessen the contempt of that verdict! With his stung and
turbulent feeling he did not stop to ask himself why this
doom (a doom to which he had so strangely and unresistingly
assented) should be revenged upon the one who had

unconsciously pronounced it; nor did he realize, as he certainly
would have done, with time for reflection, how the
retaliatory exercise of a momentary mastery over his censor—staking
all, to win, for an hour of resentful rivalry,
the preference of the young heart aspired to by the other
—was, in its possible injury to the best hopes of that young
heart, at least, wanton and unworthy.

It approached the sunset, and most of the titled and gay
guests had taken their leave. The few who remained were
the more special intimates of the family; and for these
had been reserved a summons to the little drawing-room
of the old Casa, where, over a cup of tea, were to be produced
and discussed the more affectionate secrets of the
occasion—the letters of felicitation, the flowers, the birth-day
presents, and the exchange of smiles and sweet wishes
between parents and child.

The latter part of the entertainment out of doors had
been a most marked carrying out of the morning's vindictive
triumph. Colonel Paleford himself had watched with
mingled feelings the more thoughtful and assured contentment
of his daughter's manner, and her complete absorption
in Paul's every look and word. The bewilderment of
Mr. Ashly with her beauty, and the rejection of his lover-like

attentions, which was contained in her polite civility
to him, were, to the clear-sighted eyes of the father, equally
apparent. It was not for him to disturb, even by a look,
on her birth-day, this dream of happiness; yet he could
not but sigh over the advantages she was thus girlishly
throwing aside—worldly advantages that might be so
important to beauty and qualities like hers; and, in his
manner to the depressed and discouraged lover, there was
a tenderness of courtesy which indirectly soothed his
annoyance, and which, rightly interpreted, would have
been to him a whisper of encouragement.

But, to the exhilarating liveliness with which Paul—
still in untiring spirits—was successfully giving the tone to
the conversation at the tea-table, there was presently an
interruption. The servant handed in a box, which had
just been left at the gate for Miss Paleford—a birth-day
present, doubtless arriving late—and the colonel proceeded
to gratify general curiosity by opening it in the drawing-room.

Paul alone was in the secret of what that box contained.
It was a copy of Sybil's portrait, taken from the study of
the group of three, drawn from memory, on which he had
spent such careful elaboration. Simply framed as a crayon
sketch, it had only “best wishes for many happy returns
of the day” written under the address, and no intimation
from whence it came, or who was the painter. On this

latter point he knew very well there would be room for
ample conjecture; as the Palefords, with their love of the
Arts, were constant visitors to the various studios of Florence,
and the colonel was a kind encourager particularly
of his own countrymen among the artists. That the features
of one so generally admired should have been taken
for a study, was of course very natural, and, though a portrait
without a sitting, it was a compliment to her beauty
very likely to be paid.

As the picture was taken out, and set in a favorable
light against the wall, there was a universal recognition of
the subject; but it was looked at, for a moment or two,
with silent and wondering inquisitiveness. Wholly unsuspected
to be the artist, even by Sybil herself, Paul's conversation—(between
the awkwardness of giving an opinion
of his own work, and the necessity of still playing
a leading part while listening for the criticisms and
watching for the first impressions he so wished to store
away in his memory)—became a matter of some embarrassment.

“It is very quiet,” said Colonel Paleford, at last, whose
habit of mind was to feel his way to a decision very carefully—“nothing
startling about it.”

Paul mentally thanked him for that much. It was a
negative approval of one of his chief aims in the design.

“And what do you think of it, Mrs. Paleford?” asked

some one, as the invalid's chair was wheeled up to the
point of view.

“Well,” said the mother, gazing at it with moistened
eyes very tenderly, “it looks as I have imagined Sybil
might look when she is alone.”

Paul thanked the mother in his heart for what, to him,
was very sweet praise of his picture.

“It is a fine piece of work,” said the English ambassador,
who had scrutinized it very carefully through his
glass—“a masterly drawing, I think, if only for what it
has left undone. The temptations to effect were very
great in so queenly a face, and the artist has kept true to
a certain flower-like simplicity.”

Standing a little apart from the company, meantime
with Sybil left to his more especial attention, Paul was
thoughtfully treasuring up the last very precious commendation
of his drawing, when the fair original herself,
somewhat overpowered with the discussion of her beauty,
turned to him with a criticism for his ear alone.

“It seems to me,” she said, “to lack decision, and to be
altogether too dreamy for so real a person as I am. At least
I do not feel very like that. What is your judgment of it?”

Paul made an evasive reply; but, in that chance remark
was expressed the difficulty he had found in the picture—
the want, indeed, which there was for him in the magnetism
and character of Miss Paleford. It explained where

he had departed from the likeness, and why he had been
compelled to make the expression rather what it might
have been than what it was. But, though he treasured
and remembered these few significant words of hers, his
attention was awakened the next moment, by what was far
more a surprise.

Colonel Paleford had watched Mr. Ashly with great
interest after becoming aware of the little drama that had
been enacting out of doors, and, keeping near him at the
tea-table, he endeavored to soften with his own tact and
kindness, as far as was possible, the neglect which the
slighted lover was experiencing from his preoccupied
daughter. The conversation he had addressed to him,
from time to time, had but partially withdrawn him from
his still persevering and unequal contest with Paul, however,
till, on the appearance of the picture, he became in
that entirely and abstractedly absorbed. With his arms
crossed over the back of one of the high chairs, he stood
quite motionless for a few minutes, looking at it with an
intensity in which the living original seemed almost
forgotten.

“And what do you think of the picture, my dear
Ashly?” was the question from Colonel Paleford which
had arrested Paul's ear, and made him a listener to the
reply, so wholly unexpected.

“I should like very much to know the artist,” he said,

with the slow enunciation of one thinking aloud. “That
sketch is from a quality of genius that I have been trying
for years to find.”

“Why, I thought myself, that the touch was very delicate,”
said the Colonel, assenting and approaching the
picture.

“Something of that, perhaps, too,” continued Mr. Ashly
“but I referred to the expression only. The artist has
gone deeper than the face, for his sitter.”

“Less a likeness than an ideal, then, you think?”

“No! I have not yet quite made myself understood,”
the still half-musing critic went on to say. “There are
plenty of artists who idealize a portrait, but it is only their
way of softening defects of feature, or oftener, perhaps, of
slighting something difficult to draw. It is an easy mode
of flattering the subject. But the departure from literal
likeness in this sketch, seems to me only a more clear-sighted
faithfulness to the original. I feel in looking at
that, as if my own previous impression of the face were
corrected by a deeper-seeing observer.”

(Paul began to feel that what he had tried to believe of
Miss Paleford's character of mind, and painted accordingly,
was, to her more real lover, a full faith.)

“You find it to be an intellectually true portrait of
Sybil?” said the father, looking inquiringly to and fro
between his daughter and the picture.

“Pardon me!—one more distinction!” persisted Mr.
Ashly. It is the due proportion given to the qualities of
character, as well as to those of the mind, which makes its
peculiarity. The artist has gone in and seen her whole
nature, with spirit-perception. He has read her heart as
well as recognised her thoughts. And it is not a picture
of any one look or any special mood of mind. It is the
unconscious repose of expression that she might have, as
Mrs. Paleford just now said, “when she is alone”—a pure
woman's mere calm of life when just risen from her morning
prayer. Believe me, my dear colonel, that artist has
what is called `inspiration!' When at work at his art, at
least, whoever he is, he is a noble-natured and superior
man.”

(Could Paul believe his ears? Was the utterer of these
words the man from whom he thought he had received
unpardonable contempt? And—second thought!—could
he forgive himself for the revenge he had taken for what
was now so evidently but a passing impression of himself,
acted upon with no knowledge of his inner and better
nature?)

“Of course you will soon know who was the artist?”
said Mr. Ashly, looking at the colonel over his shoulder as
he stepped forward to Mrs. Paleford to offer her his hand
and take his leave.

“To-morrow, I dare say; and we will take you to him

at once, to see his other works—(though to tell the truth,
I have not the remotest idea which of our artist friends it
can be)—but why are you off, my dear Ashly?” said the
hospitable host, retaining the hand of his guest.

The movement was a signal for dispersion, however, and
Paul, with scarce self-command enough left under this new
reaction, to make a farewell consistent at all with his
doings for the day, said adieu under cover of the general
stir, and took his way, with the thickening twilight,
toward town. He needed solitude. He saw life getting
tangled before him; and, to be at peace with himself
again, there was much of what he had lately done that he
must mourn over and undo.